Monday, March 17, 2003
02:02 a.m.
Sometimes I wish I had a tattoo or a piercing or a really neat birthmark or something. Or maybe a really sexy, long scar on my belly. If I were kidnapped and forced to change my appearance the only identifying mark on my body is a large, brown mole on the side of my neck that children often mistake for a tick.

Sunday, March 16, 2003
02:10 p.m.
With my cable modem basic cable channels are basically free. [Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.] They charge you $10 more for the cable modem if you don't have cable television. So, I went ahead and got it. I got the minimum package--looks like 20 or so working stations.

The guy came yesterday to hook it up. I put fresh batteries in the remote and started flipping. Two full rotations later I turned it off, where it has remained, untouched.

call me easily swayedFriday, March 14, 2003
06:13 p.m.
I seriously doubt I'll ever be married, but I very well might be convinced if he promises to always refer to me as "my bride." I just think that is too fucking sweet.

g.i. janeThursday, March 13, 2003
03:18 a.m.
The assholishness was in full effect at the bar tonight. A shock, I know. Two guys (one in a military uniform) copping attitude and playing stupid little games. Like hiding their beers. Or pretending I misheard them. Guys: DO NOT ACT 5 to impress the bartender. Not that any of you do that. You are upstanding people who do not drink to intoxication, and would never grab the hand of your bartender and place it on your lips in an attempt to kiss it. And you definitely do not mention the muchness of her ass like she is completely unaware of what is back there.

After the ass comment, the conversation went like this:

g.i. joe: You watch Oz?

me: No, but I've seen Six Feet Under.

joe: *snubs his nose* That is the show with all the homosexuals.

me, in my head: Those dudes on Oz are always getting bent! That show is, as far as I can tell, about men fucking each other!

me, for real: Not all. One, okay two, and besides-

joe: -I'm sorry, no way. No. I'm not a homophobe, just intolerant. (I do not lie, he said just that.

joe's redneck companion: He really don't like gays at all. He eats his hot dogs width-wise, like this. (Holds hands on either side of his mouth to imitate.)

me, remembering the earlier ass comment while simultaneously discovering the sheer retardation of what I have just heard: Are you saying that everytime you eat a hot dog you think about sucking some guy off?

train of thoughtThursday, March 13, 2003
01:40 a.m.
Train tracks run right through the center of Murfreesboro and sometimes trains do to. Most times, in fact, just about every day. I've lived lots of places in Murfreesboro--moved seven times in seven years (and that isn't that many compared to most of the drifters I know)--and from most any place in the actual city you can hear the train groan and blow at night.

I seriously dig trains. I mean, they are so incredibly mysterious. I wonder what the train cars might contain: Livestock, handbags, artillery, people. Where is it going? Where has it been? The things it must have seen.

I wonder about the freight trains; that, aside from the occasional locomotive-hopping hobo, there are no people. But there must be someone. There is probably even a two-man crew. Sure, with today's technology a train could traverse the tracks successfully from a remote location, but that can't be right. I mean, if something were to get in the way of the tracks that would cause an accident the computer might have a mechanism to detect it, but I doubt it. All this would cost too much. Why, when you can just pay someone to drive the thing?

And that, friends, is where my fascination lies. What an eerie, fucked up kind of job! I mean, it isn't as though train tracks are lighted in any way. There is nothing but the train's own lights to illuminate the tracks. And I can just imagine that a moonless midnight on some remote train track in the back woods of some Tennessee town gets pretty fucking black. And scary.

What if the train's lights somehow quit working? You'd be hurtling ever-forward into the pitch, a soul unseen, riding the places so few eyes have seen. Propelled into the recesses of mountains and to the shores of icy lakes and blindly carried through the fields of nests of sleeping beasts.

And jesus god, what if the fucking thing broke down? You don't call up Skanky E's Wrecker, Tow and Pawn Shop to come tow your busted-ass train. Nor do you have someone "come right out" to take a look under the hood. I say you are fairly well fucked, stranded, train-less, in the damn dark in the middle of nowhere. Some X-Files type shit about to go down and it's you, a gimpy ol train and the SouthEast's supply of Chee-To's.

Annnd, that is all, really. Just wanted to talk about trains and train drivers and how badass they are.

Also badass: all these terrific mix CDs I've been getting (Ya'll rock! Well, most of you.), fucking perfect blue sky, sunny days like today (so perfect I struck up conversations with mothers pushing strollers and the nurse waiting at the crosswalk during my jog), Vicodin, top secret activities, tomato soup, timely reminders, finding floppy disks from 1997 and running out of toilet paper only to remember you have a box of tissues stashed away under the sink.

about the first timeTuesday, March 11, 2003
10:10 a.m.
The first time I made cookies I accidentally made flat cookie pie-cake.
The first time I smoked pot I spent 4 dollars and 75 cents on orange sodas from the vending machine and told my friends, laughing wildly, that the swordfish were going to stab me.
The first time I tried to tie my shoes I did it correctly.
The first table I ever had as a waitress called me Brandy and left me two five dollar bills.
The first time I took the ACT I got a 24.
The first time I took College Algebra I failed. Big time.
The first time I received an F was in College Algebra.
The first time I noticed I have dormant issues about that was just now.
The first time I broke my nose I didn't go to the hospital.
The first time I broke my arm it was severe and broke straight through the skin.
The first time I slept in the bed with a boy was awesome.
The first time I saw The Matrix I thought it sucked.
The first time I heard Tori Amos I sort of emotionally orgasmed. It was my first truly moving musical experience.
The first time I had sex he used two condoms. At the same time.
The first time my sister spoke she said "balls."
The first time I saw Mulholland Dr. it was ruined for me by Billy Ray Cyrus' entourage.
The first time I did Ecstasy I exclaimed to a room full of strangers that "puking had never been so fucking amazing!"
The first time my mother put me in a shower I screamed for my life.
The first time I rode a bike without my Dad running along behind me one hand on the seat I hit a mailbox.
The first time my step-sister came out to me I laughed out loud. Like I didn't know.
The first time I read And the Band Played On I told everyone I knew about Ronald Reagan's ignoring the first signs of an AIDS/HIV epidemic.
The first time I wore a toga was the last time.
The first time I heard him laugh I died.

lessons and lesions on heartsTuesday, March 11, 2003
12:46 a.m.
A man I trusted once told me that truth was the only way, but I think he lied. If he didn't lie, well, then he left out the part about all the fucking hurt.

Not really up for discussion.

chico bangs your momMonday, March 10, 2003
11:54 a.m.
One of my new monkey acquaintances, One Chico Bangs, will be on the damn radio tonight from 8-8:30 EST. I'll be sitting through a 6-hour ABC certification class (six fucking hours?!) tonight, starting at 4 CST, but you, who is lucky enough not to have to role play with 18 other equally bitter bartenders, can listen here.

on staying groundedFriday, March 7, 2003
02:42 p.m.
Every day before work I am reminded that I have to wear a minimum amount of flair. No matter what you do to make money, I have to wear no less than 7 pieces of flair.

a few questionsFriday, March 7, 2003
01:42 a.m.
You ever call anyone Baby? Shouted it during a fight?
Why do boys get, like, ten times hotter with guitars in their hands?
What's the deal with paper cuts? Why do they hurt more than burns or even broken bones?
If I don't buy more Frizz-Ease before Tueusday's hair appointment will Jeff know? Why do I care what he thinks about the frizz-easiness of my hair?
Should I see The Two Towers if I slept through the first movie and haven't read any of the books?
What would happen if I just stopped and turned?
How do you gracefully tell people things they do not want to hear?
Is there someone somewhere disappearing?
How do you take your tea?
Does Christina Ricci think anorexia nervosa is rad?
Can you get burned/melted yoga mat out of a white blouse? A $45 white blouse?
For God's sake, how many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie-Roll Pop?
Front or rear?
What does it all mean?
Can I buy that for a dollar?
Which way to the making out?
How does one acquire couth?
These anti-wrinkle creams don't do shit, do they? The cost a billion dollars because they are so small. You pay for the feat of packaging nearly nothing.
Can it really be there, in the stillness?

view from my windowTuesday, March 4, 2003
07:28 p.m.Josh Heumann has created View from my Window a place for people to post all kinds of views from all kinds of windows. Uploading your pictures is easy and quick. I uploaded my photographs in just under 8 minutes.

first of the monthSaturday, March 1, 2003
02:35 p.m.
They are right outside my door, struggling with something heavy and awkward. She is too pretty for him, a slender girl, with slender features that make her look severe or like a bird. She has this shy, goofy, charming disposition, that, though I have not spoken to her, is evident when she checks her box for mail or brings up the groceries. She makes these very animated, Meg Ryan faces even when (she thinks) no one is watching.

Now he's beside his tiny truck, painted rust gold and packed to the brim with an ugly plaid couch and household items covered in white plastic garbage bags. Because of the drizzle.

His tone is impatient, yet soft. He almost whines at her. She makes the cute faces back at him. He wants to know if there is anything else she'll be taking to her mother's, to please, go get it. He shifts his weight. She pushes up the winding staircase to retrieve more of her belongings--I hear her. From the window I see him remove his cap and slide grasped hands through oily, wet hair and unlock the door to his truck. She hurries. He waits.

Once outside he yells, softly, "I said it's unlocked." She tries the handle again to no avail. Beside him in the cabin, truck door still slung wide, she sweetly says, "You know I hate to move, but next time I'll do it by myself." She says it kindly, matter-of-factly, and he doesn't argue.

They kiss deeply and share a cigarette.

She leaves the truck for her own blue station wagon. She climbs in the driver's side. He honks at her. She honks the horn back. He returns her return honk and pumps down the window. He loudly, and with a hint of relief, informs us that she won't be back.

beeeeeeeeeeeeepSaturday, March 1, 2003
02:31 a.m.
Just got that random, ear buzzing thing that happens when your ear stops up and all you hear is this artificial screaming for a few seconds. Do you know what I mean?

I so get off on it. I think it's great, since it happens so very rarely. I used to get really freaked out about it and want to know, "Why? What the fuck is with that ringing?" Now I'm all resigned to it. Accepting of it. I like to sit and really listen to the buzz--see what I can hear. Is it a blip in the matrix? Aliens uploading raw data through my ear hole?

This isn't crazy talk. Or some sort of anomaly. You get that buzzing too, right?

Suspense and shock beyond anything you have seen or imagined!Thursday, February 27, 2003
12:08 p.m.
The rain and snow has been constant since the first of the year. Rivers and ponds are flooded, the ground squishy and loose with water. Yesterday I drove by a man-made pond on the property of a local apartment complex and noted the half-submerged trees would be a good photo oppurtunity.

I pulled into the lot and made my way to the pond. I noticed a few geese and ducks doing nothing by the water's edge, grabbed my camera and locked the door securely behind me.

Immediately, two geese hurried over to me, big feet all muddy, squawking. I clicked on the LCD screen and snapped a shot a colorful bird. I rasied my eyes from my camera to note more fowl swimming in toward me, and quick. Those that were on land took off in a full sprint. There were less than ten, so I maintained by alarm to manageable. They weren't panthers, they were fucking geese. Then I took a photo of three white ducks by a tree. It was at this time that 20-25 ducks bumrushed me, getting all up close squawking in a girl's face and shit. Their cries for food were like sirens, but more hungry.

Fuck yeah, I started to freak. The squawking got louder--more hateful--and there was this hard coldness in their black eyes. Those goddamn birds were going to eat me. The water level had risen so drastically that it destroyed any food in their precious ecosystem and they hadn't eaten in a week. They thought I looked like a white bread kind of woman, but all I had were some Tic Tacs and a diet Pepsi. Me and my thighs must have looked like a tasty treat--and none of them were thinking about sharing. My fear welled.

I can think only, "Hitchcock! Dammit!," as I fish for my keys. I hear them beating their enormous wings behind me and I fear I'll be consumed by a frenzy of beaks before I get the door unlocked and sit safely inside. I think one of them bared his teeth to me in my rearview mirror as I peeled out.

sim-ple adj.Thursday, February 27, 2003
10:53 a.m.
My cheap, $10 speakers I use on my PC sometimes pick up what I guess are CB radios or scanners or something. It's always men shouting. Scares the fuck out of me.

Just now it happened again and this is what (I think) this guy yelled: "She's just a simple bitch."

I wonder if he meant to say "She's simply a bitch," or whether he meant she is indeed simple--as in manifesting little common sense or intelligence.

'Cause if it is B) then that is a truly excellent putdown. You simple bitch.

what the hell?Tuesday, February 25, 2003
06:40 p.m.
In efforts to improve, this webmistress asks you--those that come by regulary--if there is anything you dislike about my site? Anything at all? Surely there is something.

Hard to read? Difficult to navigate? Just plain ugly? Hate all the cursing and shit?

trying to trend setTuesday, February 25, 2003
04:13 p.m.
I secretly dig it when the dirty laundry becomes so vast that I am left with nothing but granny panties. As illustrated here, granny panties aren't my first choice. I wear the lace and the string and the thong and all that sexy stuff first. Ya know, just in case hell freezes over and I actually get a piece. But in terms of sheer comfort and staying-power, nothing beats the tried-and-true granny panty.

I know, I know, they are ugly. You're right, they can be. But there is a pure, special kind of beauty that can be seen on the face of a woman who isn't clenching her teeth in discomfort from having blue-sparkly lace up her bum that you haven't considered. The granny panty has many and versatile positive aspects. You can hide shit in there. Loose change and the like. And in case your sail breaks while out boating, you can use the Missus' drawers. They can also double as restraints in the bedroom. Just sayin'.

So, I am on a crusade to bring the osteracized and misunderstood granny panty back into vogue? Who's coming with me?

blipTuesday, February 25, 2003
01:25 a.m.
I "made" a headstone for dong since he was nice enough to make that animated header up yonder. And the first person to cite where I snagged that image wins a neat-o prize. I'm all about the neat-o prizes lately.

frequentMonday, February 24, 2003
01:09 p.m.
My job would be great if it weren't for the fucking regulars. Every bar's got them, or it wouldn't be a real bar, but typically they are a needy, sordid lot, with raging alcohol problems to boot. Most of them are regulars at one or more other bars in town, so as to disguise their nightly binges. They are in their 30s and 40s, some divorced, but mostly never married and 99% male. They drink 7,8,9 Wild Turkey and Cokes and ask, ad nauseum, if you've ever considered going home with a red-headed stranger. Only he's no stranger. He's here three days a week, synced to my schedule, and never leaves the place without uttering at least once, "I know you don't really like me."

These regulars are the kind of people who are jealous of the time/attention/whathaveyou given to the other regulars, begging you to have your shift meal beside them, and not Darnell. "Come take your top off and sit by me."*

They know that you close at 10 p.m. on Sundays, yet sit until 11 every time. Sometimes, they make you cry.

Some bar regulars are cool as fuck. Like Jimmy the Biker who was gentle and considerate and tipped super fat. Everyone liked to see Jimmy because he never tried to verbally molest us. Then Jimmy got a girlfriend and now he doesn't come around anymore. Good for him, but man, I think we all really miss ol' Jimmy.

Which leads me to conclude that there is one characteristic in bar regulars that remains consistent--regardless of age, race or social status: They all seriously need to get laid.

*When eating at the bar, staff must remove their outer server shirts to maintain an illusion of professionalism. We wear t-shirts and such underneath.

holla!Sunday, February 23, 2003
11:36 p.m.
What does it say about me that I find the new Jay-Z/Beyonce Knowles collaboration "'03 Bonnie and Clyde" somewhat endearing, what with Jay-Z growing all up and shit, moving on from the kilos and the stank hos to Burberry monogamy? All he needs in this life, he said, is himself and his girlfriend.

Nashville StarSunday, February 23, 2003
12:07 p.m.
Nashville is okay. It's cool enough. It has its definite disadvantages like a serious defecit in the art/indie film department. It's hot here most of the time. And people here are unabashedly, willfully ignorant. But it's got plenty of charm. Tennessee is a beautiful state and Nashville is no exception. The streets of downtown Nashville speak a rambling, complex history. Food here tastes better than most places because it is all deep-fried and covered in cheese. You can't throw a stone for hitting a live music venue, most for cheap or free.

And they are varied, too. One of the biggest drawbacks to living in Nashville is it's reputation as the Country Music City. Not true. It's just the Music City. And while country music predominates Music Row where the executives prune up-and-comers, and the adornments of the city streets--neon cowboy boots and rhinestone-studded fannypacks--but the actual music in Nashville is as varied as anywhere else you may go.

Which is why I am almost sad to see that the USA Network has created a reality show, "Nashville Star", wherein twelve contestants live together and work toward becoming the winner of a recording contract at the series' finale. The chosen twelve look ripe for the ribbin' with names like Prentiss Varnon, Kristen Kissling and Buddy Jewell. One of the contestants from California names The Judds and Sublime as his primary musical influences. Take this quote from NYC-dweller Jamey Garner, "I try to inhabit a song. Live it! Then throw in some fiery down-home harmonica and a whole lotta heartland upbringing. What comes out is honest country." Or this gem from 19-year-old blonde Miranda Lambert, "I consider myself a TRUE country singer/songwriter who stands on the vocal and attitudinal shoulders of Natalie Maines and George Jones." Honey, you may need a spotter.

I look forward to seeing how Nashville will be portrayed in this B-rate reality series, though I bet I might be the only one.

for your optical dis/pleasureSunday, February 23, 2003
11:44 a.m.
Friday night I went out for a going away thingy. On my way to Nashville I took a detour through Ashland City, the place where I grew up.

power steering rocks my faceThursday, February 20, 2003
11:06 p.m.
It is startling to pull onto your street to see your car--not your new car, but your car, the one you've driven for eight years now--sitting parked on the curb.

You feel all helpless and out of sorts with the universe for a fraction of a second. Then you note: wow, I own two cars. You opted for the generic milk, but you own two (plural) cars.

make up my mind not warWednesday, February 19, 2003
09:19 p.m.
So I wanna make a t-shirt. A t-shirt that expresses my dissastisfaction with our government's "cowboying it up" (his words). I want it to be a play on the classic "Make Love Not War" shirt, but change the word 'love' to something clever and droll. Something that will perpetuate my delusion that my mere opposition to the upcoming war with Iraq (and god knows who else), and my announcement of it via self-serving outerwear, is action enough.

A few ideas:

Make Muffins Not War
Make Coffee Not War
Make Fucking Not War
Make Monkeys Not War
Make Space Not War
Make Magic Not War (too medieval faire-ish?)
Make Spank Not War (I don't even know what this means.)
Make Beds Not War

Anyway, I have the shirt and the letters and an iron. But I can't fucking decide. Every time I go to choose the letters I think of Make Crank Not War! Then reneg.

Also, we are still under happy hour, so if you'd like, I can get you two for one on drafts or margaritas. It's "against the Bible"? Okay. Sweet tea? I thought so. Can I interest you in an appetizer? The Awesome Blossom? That's Chili's, you dumb fuck, but you are right; it is all the same.

So, do you need more time to look over the menu? No, of course not. I'll just stand here and prompt you through your entire order. How would you like your filet cooked? No sir, blood won't come out of it, it was never once a live animal. The meat will be dropped from the Steak Fairy in the sky onto your plate.

Would you like a house or Caesar salad? It's got lots of green lettuce and no bacon and the dressing has an anchovy paste-you'd hate it. You want ranch? Right.Baked potato, sweet potato, fries, veggies or garlic mashed potatoes? Mashed. Got it. No, we haven't got gravy.

Super, I'll get this going for you. You're deep-fried appetizer will be out shortly, at which time I hope you choke on it.

Twenty times a night, five nights a week for six years. That is 362,000 times.

100 words on 'blue'Tuesday, February 18, 2003
07:55 p.m.
Cool, liquid-looking vapors drip from beneath the pot of her desire, like perspiration on an ice-filled pitcher. She wraps cold cloths around her wrists, and thinks of ways to kill a man. Painlessly. Her breath comes forth in wisps, like tiny tendrils, as she chokes on what she knows and fears she will not ever know. Her mouth, slick, opens and closes--somewhere between here and neverwhere. The sound of buses long gone, carrying the bags of a man so lonely that he'd rather be alone. Than tied to the ice.

pork chop, pork chopTuesday, February 18, 2003
07:29 p.m.
My friend Emily, who'll be leaving Tennessee for Texas in just a short while, told me last night that she thought I was responsible for making up this cheer:

Pork chop, pork chop
greasy, greasy
We can beat your team
Easy, easy

Odds are you've heard this famous chant, and if you haven't well, it's well-known. Kevin Costner "sings" it in 3,000 Miles to Graceland. Emily told me that.

I've never seen 3,000 Miles to Graceland, but she has, and even after hearing the Mr. Costner chant the rhyme, she insisted to anyone who would listen, that I wrote The Other White Meat cheer. She said she figured someone overheard it at one of our softball tournaments and ripped me right off, taking the verse straight to Hollywood, never bothering to credit or compensate me in any way. The bastards.

Best of all, when people assured her she was crazy--or that I was a bald-faced liar--she insisted that she was right, that Brittney Gilbert made up the Pork Chop cheer.

Tomorrow I'll have a gorgeous, dentless, CD-player havin', sunroof-sportin', electric locks and windows-featurin', power steering included, totally free car in which to carry around my hundred or so copies of The Scene.

Don't go trying to get me down tomorrow. Try it and I'll run over you with my cool as fuck car. Or tie you down and paper cut you to death with my first published critique.

8th gradeTuesday, February 18, 2003
12:21 a.m.
8th grade was my lilac sweater/skirt combo from K-Mart that skimmed by budding curves in a way that made the young twenty-something crossing guard smile at me in a way that I was embarrassed of, but often thought about in my room late at night, staring into the box fan. 8th grade was playing Nintendo in my room, Tetris probably, and the paralyzation that took over as the DJ cut off Paula Abdul to announce that we were now officially at war with Iraq. 8th grade was 4-page letters, front and back, to a boy who wore Polo cologne and once hit me with a chair. 8th grade was Latin class with the 6-foot tall teacher who carried a stick, a huge cane that was wrapped in black duct tape that she threatened the students with jokingly. She was funny and irreverant and stole the heart of the Mr. Snook, the shop teacher who was married with two girls. He once told me he hand built one of them a make-up mirror.

8th grade was trading clothes with Karah, who was blowing up popularity-wise, since her being featured in Teen magazine's model search. She was chosen as one of the ten finalists, then went on to be a Nexxus girl, then later a hostess at a popular Nashville eatery. At the time I thought wearing her denim skirt brought me closer to the cool. 8th grade was my first kiss during a basement game of spin the bottle, with Bryan Dwyer, a sweetheart of a kid who happened to suffer from Tourette's. True story. That kiss remains, to this day, the longest kiss I've ever engaged in. Not literally, mind you, but my mom was out in the car, blowing the horn, the entire party was watching, and Bryan twitched and licked my teeth for what felt like fucking months. I was glad for us both he didn't curse.

8th grade was awkward, hush-hush fumblings with a girl in her room while listening to Bryan Adams, looped, on her pastel boombox and deciding for sure while she slept that boys were more my style. 8th grade was tears spilled over B+ tests and pretending to read Tale of Two Cities to impress my English teacher. 8th grade was red clay suntans from the softball field, where I learned how to throw a ball really, really hard. 8th grade was hot summer nights beneath screenless, opened windows and the sound of crickets and dreams of true romance. 8th grade was winning the Student of the Year award at semester's end, a plaque I could not accept as I was in In School suspension for french kissing before History class.

8th grade was before the wrinkles, before the loss, before me that is now, hardened and disillusioned. 8th grade is a collage of moments, a foggy, ancient yesterday, a place I'll be happy never to return.